Music is the Medicine
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: Music is the medicine of the breaking heart. -Leigh Hunt.. a series of oneshots about John and the music that'a there to help him heal... slight J/S slash.. Sherlock/OFC/John friendship.. Rated for some language..


**_This just sort of hit me one day and refused to leave until I wrote it down... so I gave in. Hasn't been beta'd or Britpicked..  
><em>**

**_Warnings: slight John/Sherlock that gets more obvious; Sherlock/OFC/John friendship; spoilers for TRF_**

**_Word Count: 4,816  
><em>**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Never have. Never will... the things I would do Benedict if I did..._**

**_A/N: 1. 'Aoife' is prounounced 'Eefah'. It's Irish Gaelic. 2. Every song used/mentioned has been covered by the Vitamin String Quartet, and all but one can be found in their entirety on YouTube. (You have to google for 'Sorrow', and it usually only brings up an excerpt.) 3. I hope everyone is in character, and that my OFC isn't a Mary Sue.. *ducks head in shame if she is..*_  
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><p><strong>1. Lacrymosa<strong>

It was dark, but there were still plenty of kids hanging around the skate park covered in graffiti. A young woman sat alone, her blonde hair in a messy knot, her clothes dirty and ragged. Clearly one of the homeless. Her pale blue eyes darted all over, as if she were looking for someone. She was petite, looking diminutive in a too-large coat. A violin case sat protectively between her knees. Piercings glinted up and down her ears. She seemed at ease among the action, and no one there spared her a passing glance, as if they saw her here all the time. She just sat and waited.

The girl did not seem surprised when a tall, thin man approached her and sat beside her. He, too, was likely homeless. A dirty beanie kept long, dark, unkempt curls pressed to his head. Dirt was smudged over one pale cheek. His clothes were an odd series of mix-matched, ill-fitting articles, mostly hanging off his thin frame. Dark stubble stuck out on his pale face. Again, no one paid him any mind. He sat in silence beside the girl for a moment before simply saying, "I've got a favour to ask of you, Aoife."

"It's 'Calliope'… or 'Callie'. You know that."

"I prefer 'Aoife'," he responded in his deep voice, "It's different. More interesting."

"Just call me 'Callie' and ask your bloody favour," she retorted.

Her voice held the curious lilt of the Irish Travellers. Of course, that was because she was one.

"I need you to look up someone for me, _Callie_," he stated, "It's very important to me."

Callie looked up at him a moment before asking, "What's the job, mate?"

He smiled at her and explained everything. The next day, she set up with her violin outside 221B Baker Street to play for a little money… and to keep an eye on Dr. John Watson.

This was three weeks after the death of Sherlock Holmes.

_Now that you're gone,  
>I feel like myself again.<br>Grieving the things I can't repair and willing...  
>To let you blame it on me,<br>And set your guilt free.  
>I don't want to hold you back now love.<em>

**2. Prayer of the Refugee**

It was three months after the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Callie played her violin outside 221B Baker Street no less than three times a week, ready to watch for John, just as she'd been told. He was very tired looking all the time. He was dropping weight, slowly but surely. He only acknowledged her presence through a series of sad looks. She felt very sorry for him.

One day, a man bumped into him, a drunk, probably homeless. John apologized. The drunk glared at him and stalked toward Callie, dropping to the ground beside her, his head bowed. John stared at him a moment, then walked away. He was limping slightly. Callie watched him go, violin and bow limp in her hands. She bent down to collect the money from her case. The people frequenting Baker Street were very generous to her. A deep voice beside her rumbled, "He doesn't look good, Callie."

"He's gotta get worse before he gets better, I reckon," she replied.

"I'm just a bit…" he paused, continued, "I don't know if he's behaving normally."

"He's mourning. Nobody does it the same, do they now."

The man hummed in agreement. He paused briefly before saying, "It's very odd."

"What is?"

"Being a runaway… a refugee. Don't know how you do it."

"Ain't hard. I got nowhere else I'd rather be. Certainly don't wanna be where I was," she stated, "But that's why it's hard for you, innit?"

"Why?"

"Because there's only one place you really wanna be… and it's the only place you can't go."

She pulled the bow across the strings and the man was gone.

_So open your eyes child,_  
><em>Let's be on our way.<br>Broken windows and ashes  
>Are guiding the way.<br>Keep quiet no longer,  
>We'll sing through the day,<br>Of the lives that we've lost,  
>And the lives we've reclaimed.<em>

**3. Helena**

It was six months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Callie still spent all her spare time in front of 221B, playing her violin for spare change. The people there were generous to her, and she was starting to do well for herself. John always gave her a sad smile every time he passed her now. He even knew her name, and he always gave her a good bit of change whenever he went by, Callie liked him a lot. She was still staying at the shelter, but things were looking up for her at last. One night, a young man sat beside her at dinner. He had long, black, straight hair and very tight clothes. Dark make-up was smudged around his pale eyes.

"How is he, Callie? I've been gone a while…"

"Alright, I reckon," she answered with a shrug, shoveling food into her mouth, "Hasn't lost a lot of weight lately. Still looks tired though, like he ain't slept proper in a while. You'll never believe… he gave me twenty quid the other day. Asked me to play my last song whenever I didn't have any requests. Said he liked it a lot."

"What song was it?" he asked softly.

"Can't remember rightly," she lied.

The man said nothing for a while, picking at his food disinterestedly. Finally, when he was done, he whispered, "I don't know when I'll be back next time, Aoife. Please… keep looking out for him… playing for him."

"Of course. Not gonna give up all the good money now, am I?"

He smiled softly, pressing a swift kiss to her temple as he got up. The next day, she went to her spot in Baker Street and pulled the bow across the strings for her rendition of "Helena". John smiled at her that day. She grinned back. When she saw him later that day, he invited her in to warm up. The flat was clean but cluttered, just as she imagined it had been when Sherlock lived there.

"How are you, Callie? Do you have a warm place to sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah, I do. Stay at the shelter."

"Good… good. Y'know, you're a great player… on your violin."

"It's been said," she replied with a smirk, "and actually… my name's not Callie, or Calliope. It's Aoife. It's Irish."

"I like it. It's… different."

"That's what Sherlock said."

John's face fell a little as he said, "He certainly does like things that are different. So you know him? You're part of his Homeless Network?"

"Yep. I think he liked me for me violin personally, but you never know. He was an odd one," a pause, "Thank you… for inviting me in, Dr. Watson."

"Don't worry about it. And don't be afraid to ask if you need anything," he said.

They shared a smile.

_Can you hear me?  
>Are you near me?<br>Can we pretend to leave and then  
>We'll meet again<br>When both our cars collide?  
>What's the worst that I can say?<br>Things are better if I stay  
>So long and goodnight<br>So long and goodnight  
>And if you carry on this way<br>Things are better if I stay  
>So long and goodnight<br>So long and goodnight_

**4. Hallelujah**

It was eleven months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Aoife sat in the park, violin case across her lap, munching on a sandwich Mrs. Hudson gave her. She liked Mrs. Hudson… almost as much as she liked John. He was nice. She simply sat and watched the people, wondering what Sherlock would've seen.

"You'd be amazed."

She jumped and looked over. Another homeless person sat beside her. His clothes were too big, and his hair hung in his face, held down by a mangy cap.

"You think too loud," he said.

"Could be you're just nosy," she retorted, "Good to see you're not dead."

"Yes, well… I was given a bit of trouble by this last one, but we don't have to worry about him anymore. He was lucky, not good. It was insulting."

"Oh, God forbid we insult your sensitive ego," she said sarcastically.

He huffed beside her. Aoife waited a moment before saying, "He's limping again, your doctor. Started using the cane 'bout three days ago. Losing weight again, too. I'm worried about him, mate. He's a nice bloke. I don't like seeing him like this."

Her companion was silent for a while, so she mentioned, "I think it's because it's the one year anniversary coming up. Y'know… of you being dead. Makes him sad."

"Is that normal?" he asked, then barked out a short laugh, "Pathetic… pathetic that I don't know that, isn't it?"

"No… it's just you being you, mate," she answered.

She looked at him. He was frowning.

"He just misses you," she whispered.

He shot to his feet an walked away, but she swore she heard him mutter, "I miss him, too," as he stalked off. She played a sad song for John that night, even if it was requested by someone else. She felt as if she were playing it for him. He gave her ten quid and a sandwich the next day.

"Any requests, doctor?" she asked.

He just smiled sadly and went inside. She pulled the bow across the strings for "Hallelujah".

_Maybe there's a God above  
>all I've ever learned from love<br>Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you  
>And it's not a cry that you hear at night<br>It's not somebody who's seen the light  
>It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah…<br>Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah..._

**5. All That I've Got**

It was one year since the death of Sherlock Holmes. Twelve months. 365 days.

Aoife felt somewhat honoured that John and Mrs. Hudson invited her to the cemetery with them to visit Sherlock's grave. They each had a small bouquet of flowers even though John had laughed on the way there that Sherlock would've thought it was stupid. Aoife had her violin. John and Mrs. Hudson thought that maybe Sherlock would like the music, and she agreed.

It was a lovely headstone, black marble with gold lettering, and in a lovely spot. Aoife had never seen it before.

"Do you want a moment, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked John.

He just nodded, so Mrs. Hudson gently led Aoife away. However, neither noticed the man hiding in the shadows of a nearby clump of trees. Only he heard and saw John.

"Sherlock, I… it's been a whole year now," John said, his voice wavering, "and every day I'm still waiting for you to walk through the door, to tell me it's all been a big, stupid joke. I just… I can't believe… I _refuse_ to believe you're dead. You can't be. But it since I don't have you to yell at in person, I'll have to settle for this. Not much better than the skull, though…"

He sniffed, cleared his throat, continued, "I'm pretty sure Mycroft is paying the rent for me, which is good, 'cause I haven't got another job yet. Cleared up your name a bit, Mycroft did, and Lestrade's. Still had people all over London painting buildings with 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES' and always in yellow. I liked it, personally."

John sucked in another breath and stepped forward, placing his hand on the cold, black, marble.

"I miss you, Sherlock. I just miss you so much, " he whispered, "You're… you're my best friend, and you're not here, and it's not fair. Everyone looks at me like I'm a nutter when I talk about you like you're still here, and I hate it. Please… _please_ come home. I… I need you back."

It was then that John's carefully constructed wall fell away, and he just cried, hanging his head. His tears just caught the sunlight as they fell, glimmering for a brief second. His shoulders shook slightly, his hand now gripping the headstone. Small sounds escaped him, barely heard by the man in the shadows. It took him a couple minutes to compose himself and limp away, trying to hide his moment of weakness. The sad voice of the violin floated through the air. He didn't see that the man in the shadows was crying, too.

_I guess, I remember every glance you shot me  
>Un-harmed, I'm losing weight and some body heat<br>I squoze so hard  
>I stopped your heart from beating<br>So deep that I didn't even scream fuck me, I…  
>I'll be just fine<br>Pretending I'm not  
>I'm far from lonely<br>And it's all that I've got_

**6. Fuck You**

It was one year and four months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

"Who is that?" Aoife's current companion asked indignantly.

She looked up from counting her money to follow his line of vision. John was walking with a woman down the street. She was pretty enough, seemed pretty nice. She'd only met her once.

"Reckon that's his girlfriend, then."

Her homeless friend seemed shocked, his pale eyes going wide. She laughed.

"What? He's a big boy. He's allowed to date. 'Sides, she seems alright."

She looked back to her friend and saw a prominent scowl on his face. She laughed even harder now. He stared at her, asking, "What? What's so funny?"

"It's just…" she said, trying to breathe, "it's… oh, you're so _jealous_!"

His cheeks went crimson as he half-shouted, "Jealous! I am not jealous!"

"Oh, but you are though! You were _glaring_ at that poor woman! It bothers you!"

"I'm not bothered."

"You are bothered, though."

"I am not."

"You are though!"

He gave up and pouted, eliciting another laugh from Aoife. She picked up her violin and bow with a sing-song, "I see you drivin' round town with the guy I love, and I'm like-"

The bow glided over the strings for two notes that finished the line for her, and her companion got up and stalked down the street as she roared with laughter. It was just too funny.

_I see you driving 'round town with the girl I love  
>and I'm like,<br>"Fuck you!"  
>(Ooo,ooo,oooo)<br>I guess the change in my pocket wasn't enough  
>I'm like,<br>"Fuck you!  
>And fuck her too."<br>I said,  
>"If I was richer, I'd still be with ya"<br>Ha, now ain't that some shit?  
>(Ain't that some shit?)<br>And although there's pain in my chest  
>I still wish you the best<br>With a...  
>"Fuck you!"<em>

**7. Let It Be**

It was one year and ten months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

John had generously allowed Aoife to stay at 221B for a few nights following an incident at the shelter where someone had tried to rob her and gave her a black eye. She liked the cluttered little flat, still full of Sherlock's belongings. She slept on the couch, refusing to let John because of his leg and shoulder and because it was his flat. Mrs. Hudson was thrilled to have some female company, chatting with Aoife whenever she could. It was nice.

One night, John asked, "So, how did you get involved in Sherlock's Homeless Network, anyway?"

"Heard me playing the violin on the street one night and said he liked my style. Asked if I wanted to help him out with something. He wanted me to play a certain song to help catch some guy that killed his wife. Worked, too. So he gave me a tenner and left. Found me again and asked my name. I told him it was Calliope, and he called me a liar and went about deducing things about me. Kept me on ever since. He's a good bloke."

"Do you believe he's dead?" John blurted out.

Aoife paused.

"I believe what you say, doctor."

"He's not dead," he stated.

They fell silent for a while until Aoife asked, "Would you tell me about him?"

He seemed a little surprised, then replied, "What do you want to know?"

"Something new."

John smiled and just started talking. He told her how they met, about the skull, how he shot the wall out of boredom, about the body parts and the experiments in the fridge, how he used John for an experiment, about the violin playing at all hours of the morning.

"It's just funny. We're totally opposite, but we get on so well, me and him. Compliment each other. It's like it was meant… well… I just want him to come back."

John excused himself to bed after that, wishing Aoife a good night… and if he was woken up at three in the morning by a Beatles song on violin, he never said anything about it.

_And when the night is cloudy, _

_There is still a light that shines on me, _

_Shine on until tomorrow, let it be. _

_I wake up to the sound of music _

_Mother Mary comes to me _

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be._

**8. Somewhere I Belong**

It was two years and three months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Aoife was in the Tesco, picking up some groceries for John and Mrs. Hudson. She was eyeing up the biscuits when a deep voice behind her said, "Well, you look less homeless than usual."

She almost dropped the shopping and whipped around. It was her usual homeless companion.

"Yeah, well, that tends to happen when you've actually got a place to live, dunnit?" she replied.

"John took you in like the Good Samaritan he is."

"He did. Told me I could stay there as long as I like as long as I do my share of the housekeeping, which has become all of it. Asks me to play the violin sometimes. Once in a while he wants to hear something special, but usually I just play whatever I feel like."

She looked up at him. His grey eyes were questioning, and she already knew what he was going to ask.

"He's _okay_, but I'm a bit worried about him. Hasn't gone on a date since that Mary woman you glared at. Doesn't really do much of anything but go to work and come home. Barely ever leaves the flat."

Her companion frowned, and she continued, "There's something not quite right with him. Poor bloke has the most awful nightmares. I think he just keeps waiting for you to come home… just misses you."

He still didn't speak. Aoife heaved a sigh, picked up a package of biscuits, and headed for the checkout. She was at the end of the aisle when he said loudly, "I want to come back."

She turned, and he approached her again. He said, more quietly this time, "I want to come back more than _anything_, but it's not safe. Not for John, not for Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or you."

"Then make it safe and come back. I'm worried," she stated, "He's not himself."

Her tall, lanky companion looked as though he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the words. Instead he brushed past her and left the shop. A small flicker of anger flared up in Aoife's chest, but she shoved it down. It wasn't his fault, not entirely. She only hoped he would come home soon, for John's sake. When she got back 221B, she noted that John hadn't moved from when she'd left. This wasn't good. He wasn't healing.

"Want to go for a walk?" she asked, "Weather's nice, plus I'm used to walking a bit, being homeless and all. Could do you some good, the fresh air."

"No… no thanks. I'm fine," he answered mechanically.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, 'm fine."

Aoife sighed and picked up her violin. It sighed with her as she played a song John didn't know.

_I wanna heal, I wanna feel what I thought was never real  
>I wanna let go of the pain I've felt so long<br>(Erase all the pain till it's gone)  
>I wanna heal, I wanna feel like I'm close to something real<br>I wanna find something I've wanted all along  
>Somewhere I belong<em>

**9. Sorrow**

It was two years and eight months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Aoife was now working for Mrs. Hudson at Speedy's and living in 221C for a cheap rate, mostly because no one else was willing to live there for any fee at all. She liked working at Speedy's, seeing people. She especially liked seeing Lestrade and Molly. It meant John had company, and he needed company these days. Therefore, when her homeless friend showed up as she was closing one night, she was upset.

"Why are _you_ here?" she spat.

"Why do you think?"

She laughed humourlessly, saying, "Well, it's sure not 'cause you care! I've told you to come back, but no! We've got to _work_ and prove how _clever_ we are!"

"I can't come back 'til they're all gone, _Aoife_," he snapped, "Moriarty's men-"

"_Fuck_ Moriarty's men! John needs you!" she half-shouted, "He hasn't left the flat in weeks, quit it his job two months ago! The only people he sees are the ones who visit him! Molly was in bloody _tears_ the last time she was here! And it's all because of you! Because you can't be bothered to care abou-"

Her voice was cut off in a short shriek as he slammed his fist against the wall right by her head. His grey eyes were fierce and flashing.

"Don't…" he snarled, "_Never_ imply that I don't care. I care more than you will _ever_ understand. If I come back now, you will _all_ die, and I _will not_ let that happen."

Silence hung between them, only punctuated by Aoife's short breaths, still scared.

"He needs you," she said finally, "He's a mess. A broken, sad man. He has nightmares every night. He thinks you've done worse than died… that you've forgotten about him and left him. John still waits for you to walk through that door, and every day that you don't kills him a little more inside. At least tell him you're alive. Give him a hint. Anything."

He only glared at her before pushing himself off the wall and saying, "I can't. He'll die if I do," as he walked out. She ran after him, shouting, "He's already dying!"

There was a slight hitch in his step as he stormed down Baker Street. Aoife swore under her breath and went back into Speedy's, thinking of all she _didn't_ tell him. She did not tell him that John now slept in his bed, if he didn't fall asleep on the couch. She did not tell him that she once caught him looking longingly at his service weapon. She hid it from him on Mycroft's orders. She did not tell him that John was wasting away, day by day, pound by pound. She did not tell him that John, for all intents and purposes, was already dead.

So when he asked her to play the violin that night, the instrument cried with the thought of her secret knowledge. She couldn't play anything else. However, she did manage to get him into bed, even if it was Sherlock's, and she told him to call her if he needed anything. He didn't respond.

Later that night, she did not hear the front door open, or someone on the stair, or the door to 221B slowly opening. Neither did John, trapped in the throes of a nightmare. No one saw the pale fingers smooth over the furrowed brow, caress the stubbled cheek, trace the chapped lips. No one saw the pale grey eyes fill with tears at the miserable state of his companion. No one saw him lean in close to the sleeping man's ear and murmur, "I will come home, my dear John. Don't give up hope," so softly it could scarcely be heard anyway. However, John Watson's dreams that night were the happiest he'd had in a very long time.

_Sometimes life seems too quiet  
>Into paralyzing silence<br>Like the moonless dark  
>Meant to make me strong<br>Familiar breath of my old lies  
>Changed the color in my eyes<br>Soon he will perforate the fabric of the peaceful by and by  
>Sorrow lasts through this night<br>I'll take this piece of you  
>And hope for all eternity<br>For just one second I felt whole  
>As you flew right through me<em>

**10. The Dog Days Are Over**

It has been three years since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Aoife goes with John to help with the shopping. She'd been so happy when, four months ago, John had finally snapped back into life, stopped brooding, _revived_. He's back at a healthy weight but still a bit thin. The colour is back in his skin and the light once again in his eyes. He still limps, but Aoife knows she can't fix that. So, instead she helps with the shopping and little things around the flat. Today, it's the groceries.

However, today John is not as sparkly as usual. He's subdued, quiet, sad. It's because tomorrow is the third anniversary of Sherlock's death. He has a right to be sad, she supposed. She sees him looking at a bouquet of flowers to put at his grave. She talks him out of it and tries to cheer him up on the way home by cracking jokes and the like, but it didn't help. Aoife resigns herself to the fact that John will be out of sorts for a while. They put down the groceries, and Aoife sets to putting them away when she hears John gasp. She turns, and she gasps, too.

Sherlock Holmes is standing in the sitting room as if he'd never left. He grins at John, who promptly faints. They both rush towards him. Sherlock looks genuinely shocked and manages to pick him up and settle him on the couch while Aoife goes to wet a cool dishtowel for his forehead. Aoife glares at Sherlock, but with a look, he persuades her to go back into the kitchen to finish putting away the groceries. She does so reluctantly, casting a final glance at John and watching them from the kitchen.

When John comes to and sees Sherlock sitting by him, his eyes go wide, and he scoots back to sit up straighter… and rocks Sherlock with a right hook; he reels back. The same hand then covers his mouth as tears fill his eyes.

"You're back, Sherlock. You're really back," he chokes.

The detective nods, rubs his jaw, says, "Yes, John. I'm here."

"Oh… oh, it's you. It's you. You're here."

John throws his arms around Sherlock's neck and just sobs. They seem to have forgotten all about Aoife even as she smiles at them. Sherlock holds John tightly in his arms, rubbing slow circles on his back to try and comfort him… and trying not to cry himself. He fails miserably at it.

"It's alright, John. I'm here," Sherlock whispers, "I'm here. I've got you."

John keeps crying, unable to speak. His sobs are loud and harsh, three years of grief and hope finally coming to a head. Sherlock buries his face in John's hair, which is a little more grey than he remembered. When John finally composes himself, he gently pulls away enough to look at Sherlock's face, a face he thought he might never see again.

"Sherlock…" John struggles for a moment with the words, "why?"

"I had to. There were snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I didn't die, you would have. So I faked my death. Molly, Mycroft, and a select few of the Homeless Network were the only ones who knew. You're a wonderful friend, John, but you have no talent for lying or acting. I needed the world to think I was really dead, and if you weren't grieving, no one would believe it. I'm sorry, John. I never wanted you to go through any of this, to hurt. I'm so-"

John puts his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and slams their lips together. Aoife stifles a snigger as Sherlock goes rigid. It is only a moment before John whispers, "Kiss me back, you stupid prat."

And Sherlock does. In the kitchen, Aoife grins widely and quietly finishes putting away the groceries, forgotten by the two men snogging on the couch. John breaks the kiss a few minutes later to laugh as a violin sings happily from 221C. Sherlock just kisses him again.

_Happiness hit her like a train on a track  
>Coming towards her stuck still no turning back<br>She hid around corners and she hid under beds  
>She killed it with kisses and from it she fled<br>With every bubble she sank with her drink  
>And washed it away down the kitchen sink<em>

_The dog days are over_  
><em>The dog days are done<em>  
><em>The horses are coming<em>  
><em>So you better run<em>

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><p><em><strong>There you have it! Reviews and concrit are always welcome!<strong>  
><em>


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